Date: Sun, 14 Mar 2010 10:38:37 -0400
From: bamaboi2serve
Subject: Sketch #1 - Gallery Display Slave
(These brief stories are short sketches of slaves. My plan is to submit one
a week to Nifty for four weeks starting in March 2010. When sketch #4 is
posted, I'll ask you to vote on whichever of the four character you liked
the most. The story that receives the most votes (presuming there are
enough to make it worthwhile) will be turned into a complete story. Enjoy!
And PLEASE..DO comment along the way! It is the only real reward we Nifty
authors receive. bamaboi2serve@charter.net)
Sketch #1
Gallery Display Slave
I could see only faintly from behind the cum rag that was draped
casually over my head. It was an old white bath towel that had been ripped
in two. But my other senses were working perfectly, and I could not escape
the cum and piss smells that were part of the old towel. Many of the fluids
that caused them had come from my own slave body. There were stains of
various colors, shapes and sizes. Had it been stretched out on a frame, it
might have served as art. But at the moment serving as art was my service.
I stood in a corner on a raised square platform, perfectly still as
ordered, trying not to flinch even when a passerby tweaked one of my
enlarged slave tits, or sent my abused slave ball swinging by a push of the
weights that pulled my slave sack down seven inches below my crotch.
Master had given me his usual very specific instructions, knowing that
I would follow them exactly, both because obeying his every whim excited by
masochistic nature, and because the price for disobedience or failure was
too great to consider. The fact that there was only one ball being
stretched was exhibit #1 of the results of failing to obey Him. I had
learned that lesson during my training period.
Although I could not see them clearly, I could tell the people in the
room were dressed formally, and the clinking of glasses and plates let me
know Master was serving food...no doubt very fine gourmet food...at the
party.
I was part of his entertainment, a piece of installation art.
At least that's what Master told his guests. Stories like that allowed
him to get away with things that would otherwise have had someone calling
the police.
In reality, I was, and am, His worthless slave. He does to me what he
wants, and I beg for more. I never tire of serving him, and have never said
no to Him.
I cringed as someone tweaked both my tits at the same time and spit on
my chest. I could feel his saliva drip down toward my completely hairless
cock, contained in a shiny metal cock cage, secured with a shiny chrome
padlock.
The key to the padlock, I knew, was attached to a chain. One end of the
chain was attached to the leather cock ring being worn worn by another
slave. The other end of the chain, with the key itself, was inserted
several feet into the slave's ass. Master liked to watch me retrieve it
with my tongue only, crawling across the floor to present it to him after I
had washed it my mouth enough so as not to soil his hand.
Master only freed me from my chastity cage once a month, for milking.
I was standing in a round, three-foot wide corrugated metal container,
like a big pie-pan, like a metal pan you might place below a water
heater. Every few minutes, one of the men at the party would come by and
urinate on me, his piss gathering in the bottom, so I stood in a
urinal...was part of that urinal. A small set of three stairs on my side
allowed the men to reach a level above me, so as to let their pee hit me on
the chest. As intended by Master, the constant pissing and humiliation
caused my cock to try to stay very hard, despite the cage enfolding
it. That was part of his plan for me, as a piece of living art.
In a bowl on a tall stand next to me were loops of string with fishing
weights attached, and guests were encouraged to use special
Christmas-ornament like hooks to attach them to my slave cock cage. Some of
the guests realized they could also hang some from the open hoop rings on
my slave tits. Others discovered the hooks were sharpened, and pierced my
skin to hang the weights from random places on my slave body. As the party
went on, more and more of the little weights became a part of me as art.
Also on the stand were permanent black markers, and guests had used them
to write on me, Some of it was crude graffiti, like the arrows pointing to
the large plug in my slave asshole. The phrases "piss boi" and "cunt slave
bitch" and "holes for rent" were written across my chest and on my
back. Some wrote just single words on my arms and
legs. Faggot. Whore. Rentboi. Slut.
Although I could not read the words during the party, I knew what they
represented, and they too turned me on, keeping me on display as a slave
boi who's cock was fully constrained by his Master, who knew that an erect
slave was a contradiction in terms.
The party was a great success.
(Coming up -- Sketch #2: The new slave for training)